


i am weak

by dandelionslute



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bitter, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, pining!geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26251195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionslute/pseuds/dandelionslute
Summary: Geralt can’t hear it - not now - the sound of his voice, so low and deep and unmistakably masculine. This, for now, he can get away with. This warm body in his lap, warm hands around his neck, wet tongue flicking against his hand. Jaskier whines high, but his voice is heavy, and Geralt can’t have it ruining everything now.- - -Geralt struggles with internalized homophobia and feelings. [This fic contains no homophobic slurs. Geralt struggles internally with being raised in a straight Witcher world, but having feelings towards his same sex bard.]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 46
Kudos: 287





	i am weak

**Author's Note:**

> TW for Internalised Homophobia (Geralt).  
> No homophobic slurs are used in this fic.

He was raised with very clear expectations of the way his bedfellows should appear. They should be soft, and curved, with not too sharp cheekbones; a gently rounded chin and full lips. They should have a soft belly for which to lay his head upon; gentle breasts for which to brush his thumbs against and kiss. They should have supple fingers for which to stroke along his body, and they should fit snugly into his grooves when laying side by side in the aftermath of sweet delights.

They certainly shouldn’t have coarse curls of hair creeping up from their chest, and spilling from the confines of their loosely fitted shirt. They certainly shouldn’t have muscular thighs that tighten around his own as they straddle his lap, and they certainly shouldn’t have the beginnings of beard bristles crawling up their cheeks, no matter how flushed pink he might find the skin underneath.

Because they certainly shouldn’t be male. That much, he knew.

Yet here he was. Lap full of bard, hands full of ass, and if he focused just enough maybe he could pretend it were the plump and ample backside of a woman instead. Because he could never be okay with this; this grinding of a crotch against his own where there should be something much less offensive; much less intrusive. There should be the warm and welcome entice of a woman’s cunt here; not a hardened curve beneath trousers that seemed to ache to seek out his own.

He bites his tongue and instead of blood he tastes disgust.

His eyes close, and the sound Jaskier makes is almost convincing enough to trick him. It’s high and pleading, and Geralt understands, because this isn’t something to be ashamed of for Jaskier. Woman, man; it wasn’t an issue - Jaskier had no particular preference, so long as someone had their hands around his hips and their mouth against his skin.

It’s almost thin enough, when Geralt wraps a hand around it, to pretend Jaskier’s wrist belongs to someone much smaller, curvier - much more female. His bony wrist - his long and slender fingers - were one thing Geralt was grateful for in this situation. With the other hand rested upon his chest, he could look down and almost pretend it were the gentle hand of a fair maiden, placed against his chest for stability while she bounced in his lap. But the dark hair that spread down the bard’s forearm destroys the illusion, so instead Geralt decides to focus on Jaskier’s hands tangled in his hair, twisting and curling and holding tight against his skull.

If Geralt were a stronger man, he might have stopped this. He might have remembered that a man was still a man, no matter how utterly captivating and unchaste he might be. He might have ignored Jaskier’s teasing hand against his shoulder at the start of the night, warm breath whispering shameless and salacious sweet nothings in his ear; all but climbing into his lap with the dizzying scent of red wine and lust dripping from his skin.

Had Geralt been a stronger man, he might have stopped himself from pressing his nose into Jaskier’s collarbone and drinking in that smell. He’d made it hard for himself by not pushing the bard away immediately, and instead, let his eyes fall closed as clever fingers wound around and clasped the back of his neck. Jaskier isn’t shy, and he doesn’t hesitate to lean forward and push his lips to Geralt’s own. Had he been a stronger man, Geralt would have shoved him off, instead of opening his mouth to him and kissing back, instead of slipping one hand between them to palm at the front of Jaskier’s trousers, instead of biting Jaskier’s bottom lip between his teeth. He can barely hear past the buzzing electricity sparking from Jaskier’s skin.

But Jaskier makes a sound and starts to speak, and Geralt clasps a hand across his mouth. He aims to stave off the low tone of his voice - and Jaskier doesn’t quite seem to mind, instead mouthing at the palm of his hand. Geralt can’t hear it - not now - the sound of his voice, so low and deep and unmistakably masculine. This, for now, he can get away with. This warm body in his lap, warm hands around his neck, wet tongue flicking against his hand. Jaskier whines high, but his voice is heavy, and Geralt can’t have it ruining everything now.

He takes one hand from Jaskier’s ass where he’s been groping - desperately hoping to keep on pretending the round curve of it belongs to someone else - and slips it beneath the waistband at the back. Jaskier groans contentedly behind his hand. Geralt’s quick, and he pushes one thick finger to Jaskier’s ass and presses inside. He pulls the hand silencing Jaskier away and replaces it with his lips, letting Jaskier instead pant open-mouthed against him while the finger twists and turns inside. Like this, he can still drop his head to Jaskier’s shoulder and pretend he were fingering the lovely cunt of a woman instead, but much tighter - _so tight, god_.

Jaskier comes quickly - the thrill of it, Geralt figures - the wetness of it seeping though his trousers and spreading across the fabric. His hips buck as he does, and he curses against Geralt’s cheek, and the rough sound of it pulls Geralt from his haze. Jaskier looks dazed with his doe eyes half open, catching his breath, and if Geralt were a stronger man he would clasp his hand around his jaw and whisper _you’re magnificent._

But he’s not a stronger man, and instead, the darkened fabric at the front of Jaskier’s trousers makes Geralt’s stomach turn and his head spin, and he unceremoniously shoves the bard from his lap with a grunt. He fixes his clothes, and doesn’t look back before walking through the door from their shared room into the hall of the inn, leaving Jaskier behind - no doubt with glassy eyes downturned, wondering what went wrong.

Were Geralt a stronger man, he would forget the teachings of Witchers before him and burst back through the door, wind his limbs around the bard and moan _I want you, I want you, I want you._ But Witchers weren’t supposed to want, least of all men. That much, he knew. And so instead, he slips down to the tavern to sit quietly with an ale, hoping it won’t be long until the next night Jaskier crawls into his lap and he can pretend again.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for any spelling or grammar mistakes, they are mine and mine alone. <3


End file.
